


Athelas

by oliverdalstonbrowning



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Dragon Hunter AU, Friendship/Love, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 00:17:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning
Summary: The life of a dragon hunter is a lonely one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shipsicle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipsicle/gifts).



> This is my Barduil Secret Santa, written for shipsicle, as per one of their requests. I chose the coolest one, obviously. I'm sorry I can't publish it in one go, but I promise it'll be updated weekly. I hope it lives up to expectations, and that anyone else who reads it also enjoys it.  
> Merry Christmas!

Bard was no stranger to scars, nor was he unaccustomed to their presence on his body.

    After the battle for the mountain, the scars he bore were many, scattered among the bruises and even broken bones (several ribs, eye socket, one finger, two toes). Yet, as the days preceding the battle passed into weeks, he noticed one scar that refused to heal. Indeed, he could not remember when he had received it, or how, and thus it was a great curiosity to him. Starting from the centre of his palm, it wrapped around his left arm until it reach his shoulder, where it snaked down his chest to form a sharp point right above his heart. It was not deep, and kept the consistent thickness of an arrow shaft all throughout. It was utterly perfect, and surprisingly painless. Bard only called it a scar because he didn’t know what else it could be – it was not a tattoo, nor was it a brand or a birthmark. It had simply appeared on his skin one day.

    Taking refuge in Erebor while the restoration of Dale (and its injured subjects) went underway, Bard had several options as to who might be of help. The wizard was gone, damn him, so there was no chance of answers there. The Elves were still hanging about (doing more harm than good, in Bard’s opinion), so perhaps they could tell him something, given their extensive knowledge of all sorts of things.

    However, after some deliberation, he took the matter to Balin, who he thought might give him the most sensible answer.

    “What do you think?” he asked, extending his arm to show the Dwarf.

    Balin ran his hands over the scar, inspecting it with a trained eye. It formed a type of groove in Bard’s skin, rather than a welt like a normal scar. That’s what really worried him; was it healed, or was there the possibility of infection?

    “I couldn’t tell you, laddie,” Balin finally said. “It’s a strange scar, no doubt. I’ve never seen the like.”

    Bard put his shirt back on, feeling disappointed. “You don’t know anyone else who might be able to explain it?”

    “Have you asked the physicians?”

    “Yes, but they only insist on dressing it. It does no good, and only makes my clothes smell.”

    Balin tugged at his beard for a thoughtful moment. “Well, you did not hear this from me, but I would ask the Elves. And if they don’t know, then at least you needn’t bother looking for anyone else who might.”

    This did not lift Bard’s spirits in the slightest, but he thanked Balin and took his advice.

    The Elves were not staying in the mountain. They kept to their tents in the snow just on the outskirts of Dale. Bard didn’t blame them, for it was almost as cold inside the mountain as it was outside. The hospitality of the Dwarves where the Elves were concerned was as frosty as the gathering snow. Bard thought it was a bit unfair of Dain to regard the Elves with such scorn after everything they had been through together. They had stayed to help, after all, and lingered even still, helping with the restoration of the city. The only harm they did, from Bard’s perspective, was nettle the Dwarves by existing.

    Bard was unsure of how to approach the Elves. Half a king he might be, but he was surely in no position to address them without formality, much less seek their counsel. Their customs were far different to his own, and he was certain they did not think him any higher in status than the next Man they saw.

    But, then again, Bard did not think that either.

    That said, he thought Thranduil would probably oblige him. The Elvenking regarded Bard with much appreciation, and spoke to him frequently whenever the opportunity arose. In fact, he had come to enjoy their brief conversations in the city, or else in the infirmary where Bard had been staying for a while, nursing his injuries as well as those of his subjects. His eye still ached, and he still couldn’t quite walk without limping.

    He took his horse from the stables and rode down to Dale, crossing the bridge into the ruins. Tethering her with several others, he sought Thranduil out among the tents. The Elves flitted about, carrying baskets of food here and there, or else hurrying off with supplies to help the Men in the city, who worked diligently and tirelessly to rebuild their new home. Bard saw an empty cart being pulled by two elk, taking the sloping path towards a copse of trees at the bottom of the mountain.

    He found Thranduil near the old bell tower, overseeing some Elves taking down the bell with a pulley system. They hung dangerously from the precipice of the tower, shouting at each other in their own language as the bell inched closer to the ground. When Bard approached, Thranduil started yelling at them, making rude gestures with his hands. He sounded more amused than angry, which made Bard smile. He liked to catch Thranduil in moments like these – when he wasn’t emotionally frozen and unresponsive.

    “ _Suilad_ ,” he said when he saw Bard. “You are recovering well.”

    Bard smiled his thanks. “How goes the restoration?”

    “It would fair better had I been blessed with adults for workers, and not these Elflings,” Thranduil said, scowling at the Elves on the bell tower.

    “May I trouble you for counsel, or would it be too inconvenient right now?” Bard said, deciding it best to get to the point.

    Thranduil looked at him for a moment, his eyes flickering over Bard’s appearance, as if trying to figure him out. Bard stood his ground, trying not to blush.

    “Permit me a moment. I want to make sure these children do not see the Halls before their time.”

    Bard nodded and left Thranduil to storm what sounded like berates and insults at his workers. The Elves on the tower were laughing, unconcerned by their poor cooperation, their voices bright and merry against the cold snow. Even Thranduil’s mouth quirked every now and then at a smile, despite his harsh words.

    Bard watched as they managed to get the bell safely to the ground, and Thranduil ordered it to be taken away. Then, he joined Bard at the end of the path.

    “What counsel do you wish to trouble me with?” he said, his lips ever-playing at a smile.

    “Do you know much about scars?” Bard asked, keeping his stride to Thranduil’s as they walked.

    “Scars?” Thranduil repeated. “I do not understand.”

    Bard tried to pull back the sleeve of his coat, but to his frustration, it did not move up very far what with how many layers he was wearing. “I have a scar that I cannot explain. It’s strange – I don’t know how I got it. More than anything, I want to know if it’s healed or not. The physicians insist that it isn’t, but I am not so sure.”

    Thranduil furrowed his brow. “You will have to show me.”

    They took the path leading out of Dale, returning to the tents. Thranduil directed Bard to his own, lifting the entrance for him to go in. Bard did, already feeling the familiarity of it, remembering the hours he and Thranduil had spent together, taking Gandalf’s advice, or discussing what to do with the Arkenstone when it had been given to them. It seemed to Bard that the battle had been many years ago now. He half-expected the tent to be shrouded in dust from lost time and forgetfulness. But it was as bright and warm as ever it had been, with the table in the centre and several chairs scattered here and there. A bed had been added, and a chest, but it was otherwise the same.

    “Would you like a drink?” Thranduil offered.

    “No, thank you,” said Bard.

    “Go on, then, show me your curious scar.”

    Squashing the embarrassment now squirming in his stomach, Bard removed his layers of clothes, taking care of his healing bones. He shivered in the cold afternoon, but resolutely presented Thranduil with his arm, wishing he was not so ashamed of his appearance before an Elf of such great beauty. It was a hard thing not to feel jealous or inadequate before any of them, especially when laid as bare as Bard was.

    The scar looked redder than usual in the chill, stark against the paleness of his skin.

    Thranduil took Bard’s arm. His hands were gentle and soft and they almost made Bard shiver more. But he fixed himself to be calm before Thranduil, who was now inspecting the scar with increasing interest, turning over Bard’s arm and following its pattern with his fingers. The action felt too intimate for Bard's liking, and it made his spin tingle, but not unpleasantly.

    “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Thranduil murmured. “Does it hurt?”

    “No,” said Bard. “It prickles sometimes.”

    “Well, it seems to be healed, so you needn’t worry of infection. But I’m afraid I cannot say how you got it. If you do not know, then I certainly don’t.”

    Bard sighed, half relieved, half annoyed. At least the scar wasn’t going to cost him his arm. It was an inconvenience though, and it troubled him deeply. He wanted to know how he had got it, or why.

    He put his clothes back on while Thranduil poured himself a drink.

    “You wouldn’t know of anyone who might have an answer?” Bard said.

    Thranduil considered the question for a moment, tapping a ring against the rim of his cup. “Lord Elrond might know, if you’re willing to travel as far as his realm. Or Lady Galadriel. She is wise in many things.”

    “But if they might know, why don’t you?”

    Bard was aware of how impertinent a question it was, but he couldn’t help it. If Thranduil didn’t know, then how could anyone else? He understood all Elves to be knowledgeable, not just certain ones.

    Thranduil thankfully did not take insult. He smiled lightly. “I have not seen nearly as much as my kin in the west, nor have I lived as long. There are some things I cannot answer, and perhaps even they cannot. For all we can tell, your scar may be a novelty. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are no records of it at all.”

    “I see,” said Bard, looking down at his palm where the scar began. Then, he returned his gaze to Thranduil. “What do you think I should do?”

    Thranduil spread his fingers uncharacteristically. “I myself would not travel so far just for guesses and maybes, especially at a time like this. If the scar does not bother you, I would not dwell on it at present. It is a curiosity, but so are many other things in this world, and even they do not have a reason.”

    So, as per the advice of Thranduil, Bard left the matter to rest. At times, he almost forgot about the scar, caught up as he was with the restoration of a crumbled city and ruling its future people. There were far greater things on his mind and, unburdened as he was by his bargemen duties, he finally had time for the greatest thing of all to be his children. He decided it would be best to pay the scar no mind, and focus entirely on being completely, utterly, and impenetrably happy.

 

    Years passed. The city of Dale flourished under Bard’s care, as did his people, and his family. He attended regular councils with the Dwarves, and met occasionally with Elven ambassadors to trade goods or information. It was surprisingly easy, being king, though Bard never let it get to his head. He kept a steady hand and heart and a strict set of morals, and overall there were no complaints against his rule.

    It was six years after the great battle for the mountain when Bard saw Thranduil again. The Elvenking finally emerged from his forest to be present at the negotiations demanded by the Dwarves, though it was less of a negotiation than an alteration of previous treaties. The Dwarves had become increasingly irritating over the course of the years. Bard had fended off more than one of Dain’s attempts to seize the city. Bard was almost grateful for the meeting, for he was sure Thranduil would back him up if he set down a regulation against having his kingdom manipulated so unjustly.

    Thranduil’s procession was small, only a dozen Elves travelling in his wake. He looked the same as ever, though perhaps a touch more tired than Bard remembered. He greeted him formally, but Thranduil smiled on him like an old friend.

    “Royalty suits you,” he remarked after a brief exchange of goodwill. “I do not think you have even aged. How strange. How is your peculiar scar?”

    “Unchanged, though it wakes me up in the night sometimes,” Bard replied.

    “I did some investigating on your behalf,” Thranduil said. “I even travelled as far as Minas Tirith, yet I learned nothing.”

    “You did not have to do that,” Bard said, unable to hide his surprise.

    “I wanted to,” was the only explanation Thranduil gave, his expression unusually kind.

    “You have done a great deal for me. I feel guilty now to ask you of one more request, when I have offered you so little in return,” Bard said.

    But Thranduil did not hesitate. “Name it.”

    His heart wrapped with guilt, but also admiration and gratitude, Bard told Thranduil of Dain’s persistence towards Dale. Thranduil looked upset by this, but not at all surprised.

    “Dwarves have always wanted more than they deserve,” he said derisively. “No doubt they think they have some sort of claim upon your city, rooted deeply in their histories as it is. A shame. I was hoping to take some time to enjoy the scenery. It’s quite lovely here in the summertime.”

    Bard laughed. He had missed the Elvenking. After so many years with only Dwarves for company, he had long desired to hear the bright and charming voice of someone he deemed a better acquaintance. Thranduil’s dry humour and impatience with the Dwarves matched Bard’s, and it was a blessing to finally have him around again to alleviate the burden of being neighbours to such hard and, oftentimes, unwelcoming people.

    That afternoon, he and Thranduil joined the Dwarves for the meeting in the council hall, where Bard developed a terrible headache from the wine and the shouting, but left with his city permanently in his hands. Thranduil, too, had struck a nasty blow to Dain by claiming ownership of the Long Lake were Esgaroth had once stood. Bard didn’t know why either of them wanted it.

    “Oh, I don’t care for it much,” Thranduil admitted when Bard voice his confusion. “But Dain wants it, so I would take it from him if I can.”

    “But to sacrifice part of your woodland for it…”

    Thranduil hummed his merriment. “We found a nest of spiders in that part of the woods. I definitely think I have the upper hand. Maybe I will take up fishing.”

    The sun was setting now as they left Erebor, crowning Dale in a glow of golden light. Bard smiled upon the view, his heart warm at the sight of his home, alight in its former glory.

    “Are you staying long?” he said to Thranduil.

    Thranduil looked away from the city, having followed Bard’s gaze. His eyes flickered over Bard again, ever-analysing and making him blush. He smiled.

    “I do not think it would be wise to overstay my welcome. I will leave in the morning,” he said.

    Bard nodded, but his heart sank at the thought of saying goodbye so soon when it had been so many years since they had last seen each other. “I will sorely miss your company, then. You have no idea what terrible neighbours the Dwarves make.”

    Thranduil chuckled. “Believe me, I have more than an idea. But we will see each other again, I’m sure. In the meantime, would you join me? There are some matters I wish to discuss privately. I do not wish my primary economy to depend on Dwarves.”

    Bard agreed and went with Thranduil to where his tents were set up again, just outside the city of Dale. There were only half a dozen of them this time, what with the small group of Elves present, rather than an entire army. Bard couldn’t help but appreciate Thranduil’s subtlety this time around.

    The tent was, to Bard’s amazement, the same as before. Warm, cast in orange light, with a table at the centre and a decanter to the side. Thranduil reached for his wine immediately, offering Bard some as he always did. Bard knew he’d already had too much to drink at the negotiations, but Elvish wine was not exactly easily come by, so he would hate himself to miss the chance to indulge in it again.

    They sat at the table. Thranduil wasted no time presenting Bard with his list of terms, which were fair, and guaranteed a great deal of opportunity for Bard himself. He was intrigued at how generous Thranduil was being. He was offering more than he was asking; safe passage through Mirkwood, military support in times of need, supplies during the winter if there was a shortage. All that he requested in return was that Bard keep the Dwarves in their mountain and as far away from Thranduil’s forest as he could get them.

    “They’re eyeing my trees,” Thranduil said bitterly. “I know Dain wanted the Lake to rebuild Esgaroth, and for that he needs timber. But, taking the Lake out from under him will not deter him. He may seek to build the town elsewhere, or perhaps extend Erebor, and I cannot allow this to happen if he would butcher my home to do it.”

    Bard privately agreed with this. He saw no sense in having Laketown rebuilt when there was no interest in settling it again. “But the Dwarves have no need of timber, do they? They make everything from mountain stone.”

    “That is my exact point. If they build everything out of stone, then why does he want my trees?”

    “But didn’t you just give him a part of your forest?” said Bard.

    Thranduil waved a hand dismissively. “They won’t touch it when they find the spiders there. I am not too concerned. And by the time Dain realises the mistake he has made, he won’t be able to reach me to make amends.”

    Bard raised a sceptical eyebrow at this. “You antagonise him on purpose.”

    “I most certainly do,” said Thranduil with a radiant smile. “He provides a truly unique form of entertainment.”

    Bard couldn’t help himself; he laughed. He thought Thranduil’s terms quite fair, and agreed to them happily, clinking their goblets together. Keeping the Dwarves in their mountain would be a hellish task, but he would gladly do it just for the sake of Thranduil’s happiness.

    “I must ask,” Thranduil said after a fashion, pouring himself more wine. “You look younger than last time I saw you.”

    “That isn’t a question,” said Bard.

    “Ah, yes. What I mean to say is, haven’t you noticed that you are not aging?”

    Bard didn’t reply to this at once. He felt uncomfortable that Thranduil had brought it up, though he wasn’t sure why. Of course he had noticed; everyone had. Six years had passed, and there was not one more grey hair on his head, or even the slightest trace of more wrinkles around his eyes, though he smiled frequently and laughed more than ever. Bard looked in the mirror every day, almost _hoping_ there would be some change to his appearance. But there never was. He felt frozen, very suddenly, for he had expected to go entirely grey before he reached forty years. But he was forty now, and there was no difference to any part of him.

    “Why do you say it like that?” he finally said, setting Thranduil with a meaningful look.

    Thranduil blinked, evidently perplexed. “I don’t know. I suppose the concept does not trouble me as it would trouble you. It was only a trifle query.”

    “It does trouble me,” Bard confessed. “Every day, my children grow older, yet I remain the same. If this keeps up, a decade will pass and I will be mistaken for a sibling. But that would be nonsense. Mostly, I am afraid it will all catch up with me at once and leave me crippled.”

    Thranduil pondered this for a moment, leaving his wine untouched as he thought. Bard heard the familiar _tap, tap, tap_ of his rings against the goblet.

    “It is not necessarily nonsense if you are willing to believe.”

    Bard frowned. “Believe in what?”

    “Miracles, I suppose,” Thranduil said, gesturing the air vaguely. “However, I can only think of two explanations. The first being royalty has favoured you and slowed your ageing - though I find this unlikely for I have never known of any Man whose years stop catching up with them just because of their status. The second is… well...”

    He faltered, his lips red from wine and thoughtful chewing.

    “What? What is the second?” Bard prompted.

    Thranduil sighed, looking as though he was about to say something indelicate. “They say strange fates surround those who slay dragons. There is no one alive today who can claim such a feat, save for yourself. I daresay you are the first in many centuries to bear the title of Dragonslayer. Who can say what kind of effect it has had on you without your knowledge.”

    Bard raised both eyebrows this time. “Killing a dragon has done this to me?”

    “Perhaps. What with your scar and your appearance, it would be foolish to disregard the possibility.”

    “But that sounds… awfully fanciful, don’t you think?”

    “I think it has merit. It might be worth investigating.”

    “You already tried, didn’t you?” said Bard.

    Thranduil nodded. “I did, but I may not have looked in the right place. Or, indeed, for the right information.”

    Bard leaned back in his chair, rubbing the centre of his palm where the scar began, a habit he had long since developed. It had not changed in the six years he had had it, but it prickled more often than it didn’t, which bothered him. At night, it sent sharp pains through his arm, almost as if he was being burned. And the dreams he had… dreams he never remembered, but couldn’t quite forget either. Misty, obscure dreams about falling and flying and running.

    He did not confess these things to Thranduil – did not want to worry the Elf – though a part of him longed to. He wanted someone to confide in; someone who might understand.

    Bard left Thranduil’s tent in poor spirits that night, flexing his fingers as if it would alleviate the strange sensation in his arm. He looked back at the orange glow of the Elven tents, not realising it would be the last time he would see them, and those that dwelt within them.

 

    The manner of Bard’s departure was always regarded with raised eyebrows and slight contempt from the people of Dale. It happened very suddenly – he woke in the dead of night, calling for a physician, murmuring something about a bad dream and the scar on his arm bothering him. Then, by the time the sun rose, he was gone.

    No matter how many times they were asked, or how the questions were phrased, Bard’s children never revealed the nature of their father’s abrupt leave, for even they did not know the whole truth. Bard had said simply bade them farewell, taking with him only a few possessions. Sigrid was promptly crowned queen of the mountain city and, among others, she received the Elvenking from the Woodland Realm upon her coronation. Like everyone else, Thranduil inquired after Bard’s absence, but even then she refused to say. Only this she confessed to him, and only him; that her father’s scar had brought a dark change, and that he had not wanted this change to burden his family and people.

    So, Thranduil continued his friendship with the city of Dale through the daughter of his old friend, and Bard the Dragonslayer passed into legend, remembered only as the good, but short-lived king who restored a ruined city and saved its people.


End file.
